


Remembrance

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [8]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-08
Updated: 2004-08-08
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Remembrance

The _Black Pearl_ loomed abruptly out of the rainy darkness, as tall and dark as a house planted in the middle of the sea; for a moment it seemed that their little boat would be dashed against her hull, but Sparrow yelled up to the unseen deck, and a moment later a coil of rope dropped down to them, and Sparrow was motioning Jack Shaftoe, with a courtly gesture, to make his way up the notched steps to the deck, where he stood shivering and grinning, eyeing the pair of pirates who were hauling the gig round to the stern, until Captain Jack Sparrow swung himself over the rail and onto the deck beside Shaftoe: "Come with me," he said, leaning close to be heard beneath the raging sea, his hand hovering next to Jack's own as though he wanted to pull Jack Shaftoe after him, but there must have been enough stubborn independence (or open-mouthed ignorance) in Shaftoe's expression for the pirate to leave it, and instead he beckoned Shaftoe after him as he made his way below; Shaftoe, exploring the _Black Pearl_ between bouts of staring at her captain, had found his cabin early on -- had even stood and watched Jack Sparrow sleep, halfway down the Thames after a long night at the helm, and wondered at the blithe, trusting peace that informed his features -- but this time it was different, because Sparrow was unlocking the useless lock, turning to Jack Shaftoe and inviting him to step inside, a step that Shaftoe knew was symbolic of his own acquiescence in the matter; Sparrow's cabin was small and dark, and the lantern hanging above the cot -- Sparrow lit it, one-handed as he kicked the door shut behind them both -- cast the corners of the little space into deeper shadow, and gilded Sparrow's rain-wet skin until he seemed to shine; Shaftoe simply stared at him, body caught between two discordant patterns of motion as he shivered slowly with the cold that was seeping from his soaked clothes through his skin to his bones, and trembled with a warm, frenzied vibration that had a great deal to do with Sparrow's proximity and the notion of its increase, which is to say that Shaftoe, finding himself once more capable of movement (albeit of a stiffened, difficult kind, not helped by the closeness of the cabin) stepped towards Jack Sparrow until he could feel the clammy chill of the other man's coat, and beneath that the warmth of Sparrow's skin; he wanted to say something, but had no idea what anyone would say in such a situation, for this rough understanding was certainly nothing like any courtship he'd ever conducted with a woman; and Sparrow was looking at him, smiling slightly, with an expression that had as much of hunger as of more consensual appetites, though his smile sharpened as he said, "Too rough for a brazier, and I'll have to take the helm until we're off the sands and into deep water; but you'll take a fever if you don't get dry, so, Mr Shaftoe, I recommend that you help yourself to whatever fits you from in there --" and Sparrow tapped the sea-chest with his soaking boot "-- and warm yourself up with some of _this_ ," proffering a battered metal flask which turned out to contain liquid fire, of the sort Jack Shaftoe had heard of Turks using in battle: and by the time he'd made out the taste of rum amid the blaze, the door was closing behind Sparrow and Jack was alone in the captain's cabin, the whole ship pitching and yawing wildly around him (which made him dizzy, though not sick) and the trembling, proving itself to be a product of Sparrow's proximity, left him, so that now he was only shivering with cold; he recorked the flask and tossed it down upon the hanging cot, and stripped off his wet coat, his soaked and stinking shirt, and the breeches which clung to his legs; the dye had run, a little, and his skin was streaked with blue, just about the colour of his fingernails after the long, cold row from Leigh Beach to this charted Sand where the _Pearl_ had dropped anchor: as he thought of the anchor, he heard the cables roaring somewhere beneath him as the men at the capstan raised the heavy weight, and the motion of the _Black Pearl_ changed as the wind caught her sails and swung her around, heading south, towards the Straits of Dover; Jack Shaftoe, meanwhile, let his sodden clothes lie where they'd fallen, and was going through the contents of Sparrow's clothes-chest, trying to find a pair of breeches -- Sparrow was a scrawny fellow -- that'd fit him, for in his experience clothing was as much an armour as a decoration, and besides he'd no wish to alarm Sparrow by exposing his naked, ravaged body to the other man when he returned; though, Shaftoe thought as he pulled on a pair of tattered brown trousers that were soft with age, he'd every intention (where had those intentions sprung from?) of stripping off, or even letting Sparrow strip off, his borrowed clothes once the _Black Pearl_ 's captain came below once more, his precious ship preserved from the perils of the shifting sands at Thames-mouth; he stuffed Sparrow's other clothes back into the chest and leaned on it to force it closed, draping his own wet garments over the lid; and now there was nothing to do except wait for Captain Jack Sparrow,  
and nowhere to wait except in that hanging cot, which looked a sight more comfortable than the nook behind the galley where Jack'd slept last night; there was a trick to clambering into it, bracing himself against the bulkhead and that damned chest, which he mastered after a few ignominious starts, luckily unwitnessed, and then Jack Shaftoe was lying in Sparrow's bed, pulling Sparrow's blankets around him -- the cabin was dry enough, but not especially warm -- and finding himself aroused by the smell of the other man, a smell that permeated every fragment of bedding and made Jack Shaftoe turn over and lie face-down in the cot, swaying gently as the _Black Pearl_ drove south through the sheeting rain and blustery wind, inhaling Jack Sparrow and feeling his blood surge with sheer lust as the scent brought back, in exquisite and damning detail, the transports he'd experienced in that Southwark garret as Sparrow's hands, Sparrow's mouth and Sparrow's cock remedied more than a year's worth of frustration, as Sparrow's skin -- which smelt _just_ like this bed -- pressed tightly against his own, and Sparrow moaned against his neck, biting and tasting, driving Jack wild with a lust that was vivid enough, even remembered, to make him grind helplessly into the tangled bedding, cursing Sparrow's dedication to his ship and crew, wanting him here at once, hoping that the cot-chains would hold their combined weight, so that he and Sparrow could tangle together once more, naked skin against naked skin -- Sparrow would be cold, still, from the stormy weather, but Shaftoe was feeling amazingly warm, and more than happy to share that heat -- and touch, and kiss, and spend.


End file.
